


Are You There, Toriyama? It's Me, High School

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Angst, Cliches With a Twist, F/M, Family and Friend Oriented, Gen, High School AU, Hurt and comfort, M/M, Romance, School Rivalries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-26 03:31:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3835393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A common category of fanfiction written with all the realism a writer could hope to imbue into it, revolving around the differing (and yet more similar than they'd expect) perspectives of thirteen students on the journey that stymies many: high school. One thing's for sure though, amongst the drama, unexpected romances, and prevailing desire to make it to the Tenkai'chi Budokai High School Martial Arts Championships: it's going to be one hell of a ride, and they wouldn't want to miss a bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, there! Dreamtiming here! Now, you may recognize me from other fanfiction on this lovely website, but this specific story is a project that I've been working on for several months now, as this is one of the first fandoms I ever belonged to, and it's near and dear to my heart. Forgive the clichéd premise of the story, but I've always wanted to create one of my own and last year I finally decided to take a stab at it, thus creating the story that you see here.
> 
> Now, a few things to say first. High school is not a pretty experience, no matter what other people may tell you, as nostalgic and glassy-eyed as they become, and I intend to go into detail with it in later chapters, developing the characters with my interpretation and Akira Toriyama's as I introduce them into the environment of high school.
> 
> With that being said, there MAY be some things that you don't like done with these characters, as I go off of Word of God and differing opinions from the fandom, as well as a crack ship or two that just seems to fit better in my mind's eye (be prepared!). I hope that you will respect my opinions and interpretation, and if you don't, this may not be the story for you to read. Remember, this is a fanwork,not an official story, and if you do not like it, do not take it to heart!
> 
> (Additionally, there ARE trigger-worthy events that will occur in the story, but for the sake of suspense and plot, I will not mention them unless you PM me to ask about them so that I may inform you. Thank you.)
> 
> Finally, finally, for anyone who is curious or wants to offer anything, I will not take any suggestions for major plot points as I already have the plot and format of this story completely planned out. If you feel the need to correct any discrepancies in the plot coherency or grammar, that would be appreciated, but beyond that, a polite 'no thank you' will be on my part. Thank you.
> 
> Other than that, sit back, and enjoy!

** September 8th: Goku **

The night was young; was it any wonder that he couldn't sleep? Son Goku sighed; it was a tranquil, peaceful noise that escaped him like the wind that whispered through the grass. He blinked, punctuating his frenetic thoughts of the future before turning his head at the soft, muted call of his name from the house that gave him cause to arch his neck backwards to glance at a cozy, humble, upside-down one-story house that he so affectionately regarded as 'home.' The open doorway emitted soft light where a dark, hunched silhouette stood.

"Goku, I thought I told you to go to sleep half an hour ago," an aged yet stern voice intoned as Goku groaned in unabashed exasperation, rolling over to right himself and face the figure that descended with a careful, practiced gait down the hill that Goku so serenely reclined upon. He watched with a hushed silence as he saw his _gong gong_ eye him with a strict playfulness and knelt to accompany him on the gently sloping hill.

"Sorry, Gong Gong," Goku replied, rolling back to lay prostrate on his back and folding his hands, interlocking his fingers and drumming a gentle rhythm with his thumbs. "I would if I could, but—"

_"But_ you'll be exhausted for tomorrow. I won't be able to roll you out of bed, and then Bulma and the group are going to be here in the morning..." the aged Son Gohan trailed off in his brief reverie but allowed a knowledgeable chuckle to pass his lips as he amended his statement.

"But then again, it's not every day you have your first day of high school."

He raised a knotted, wrinkled hand to endearingly ruffle Goku's hair, a smile unknowingly turning up his lips, and patiently listened as his grandson held up his hands in an almost frantic, barely suppressed anxiety that amalgamated with an unrestrained excitement.

"I can't sleep, Gong Gong," Goku echoed as he continued to recline in the grass, "I'm too excited to sleep. I mean, Yamcha told me about the Martial Arts Team and I can't wait to try out so that I can join them, and then Tien told me that all of the teachers over there are cool and that I don't have to worry about getting caught sleeping in class—"—at this his grandfather set a wary glance at him that he cheerfully ignored—"—and Chiaotzu said that the food is pretty good and that lunch is an _hour_ so the whole group can just hang out like we did back in middle school before the group got split up and we haven't done that in a while."

"Goku," his grandfather arched an imperious eyebrow at him, "you just spent the whole summer with them."

"You know what I mean!" he replied as a flustered glow set to his cheeks and he conceded a chuckle. "It's different at school than it is at home."

"Indeed," Son Gohan sagely replied as he inclined his head to the ground to conceal his smile. "But you'll sacrifice your sleep because you get to see people for an hour during school that you already see every day?"

"Well, when you put it like that…" his grandson muttered under his breath, furrowing his brow in what he could already foresee was a losing battle. "Fifteen more minutes?"

"Ten," his grandfather gently yet firmly compromised, and Goku sighed, nodding his relenting assent.

"Okay."

* * *

When he awoke, it was not by the frenzied trill of an alarm that he could have sworn his grandfather had promised he had set for him, for when that was prompted to awaken him it would begin to vibrate a muted warble into his nightstand surface that would prompt it to dance a mad, frantic rhythm off the surface, until it clattered to the ground with a discordant jumble of noise that would rouse him from sleep. Instead, what woke him today was by the slam of a door (namely, his bedroom door) that slammed into the wall of his cramped, disorganized bedroom with the placid force of a falling anvil.

Goku snorted with the elegance of a drunken pig, vision blurry as he drowsily blinked while drool dribbling in an awkward descent down his chin. He made a groggy gesture to prop an elbow as support in order to better turn towards the source of the offending noise, dimly recognizing several indistinct silhouettes that had clustered in the doorway. Light from the open hallway draped over them and set a distinct contrast to the consuming darkness that ebbed from his doorway.

He didn't even possess the liberty of sitting up and waking himself up before the group that ushered themselves into his room erupted in babbling conversation and flicked on the switch. Doing this prompted light to spill forth freely over the forms that clumsily attempted to lean on walls or push away the dirty clothes that clustered in the corners to stand, while brilliant illumination setting them in sharp detail.

He squinted as his vision adjusted and an unsuppressed groan passed his lips. He sat up in an ungainly movement and raised his arms to the ceiling, a supplicating gesture that prayed for sleep that did not come; especially not now with the added presence of his friends (although thanks to their interruption of his sleep, giving him cause to seriously reconsider this titling of them).

"I swear to God, Goku, were you _still_ sleeping?" Bulma, his longtime (and only female) friend asked, rolling her eyes to the ceiling as she waded further through the chaos that Goku affectionately referred to as 'I'll clean it tomorrow' for the past three years. It took strenuous maneuvering to his dresser that bulged with drawers stuffed with unfolded clothes to complete her self-appointed task of 'finding something that Goku won't look like he jumped out of a Jackie Chan movie in.'

"Aw, lay off, Bulma, at least he _got_ some sleep," a short, squat figure that Goku recognized as his best friend, Krillin Yūjin, retorted grudgingly as he trudged through the disorder to advance towards Goku's bed. Upon reaching it, he hopped onto it to accompany him.

"Yeah, at least he didn't have _someone,"_ Yamcha Roshi, another one of Goku's close friends, interjected as he slumped against the wall and slid down to recline on the floor, running a disgruntled hand through black, equally disgruntled hair, "come to Kame House and wake everyone up _half an hour_ before they needed to. Ring any bells, Bulma?"

"Oh, shut up," Bulma shot back irritably as she rummaged through the drawers with a discerning air, tossing a decent pair of pants in Goku's general direction, "my alarm went off too early so I thought that it was the right time."

"So you just felt the need to make everyone else miserable too, huh?" Tienshinhan, a tall presence in the corner sardonically suggested into the conversational fray, while his cherubic companion and brother, Chiaotzu, released a muffled giggle into the palm of his hand to spare himself from Bulma's wrath.

After daring a quick glance at his alarm clock (it was seven-fifteen, about twenty minutes before Toriyama High started) and venturing a quick and most likely incorrect calculation in his head, Goku interrupted, "You went to Kame House at _six-thirty_ in the morning?"

Kame House was the rundown, two-story shack that Krillin, Yamcha, Tienshinhan, and Chiaotzu all lovingly coined 'the saddest piece of crap we could ever call home.' The four cousins lived under its roof with their questionably 'senile' grandfather, Mûten Roshi, who, decades ago with Goku's grandfather, had owned a dojo weighted down with accolades and honors of tournaments and championships from long ago. Unfortunately, those days had passed and the dojo had long since closed its doors to the passing of the years, but the two of them had always stayed good friends; that was how Goku had met the motley crew of cousins in the first place.

More notably now, it was notoriously reputed for all five of the men that lived under its roof to be notorious late sleepers; even Tienshinhan, who was the most responsible of them, could be known to sleep an hour past his alarm. The fact that Mûten had trained all of his grandsons in martial arts like Son Gohan had done for Goku deemed it a death wish to try to wake them up before they were inclined to. And the fact that Bulma had done it…Goku could only shudder at what had happened when she had done so.

"Oh yeah. I thought it was _our_ Gong Gong playing a prank on us and I was about to kick his old ass." Krillin scoffed, and Goku stifled a snort at that mental image due to the old man's tendencies to overexaggerate everything and pretend he was still in his physical prime (which had long ago passed just like his ability to woo women).

"Turned out it was another kind of monster altogether." Yamcha added in a scathing attempt at a stage whisper, and Goku snorted again, but the laughter quickly died in his throat as a speeding projectile he recognized as his sneaker connected with Yamcha's nose, prompting his head to snap back into the wall with a sickening _thud._

"Oh, will you shut up already?" Bulma snapped, turning on her heel with a crunch of garbage underneath her feet, wheeling at Yamcha with an expression of unrestrained, sleep-deprived fury. "Next time I won't wake you up and we'll all go to school and leave you lying there on the floor with drool coming out of your mouth and in your underwear like I found you this morning!"

It was Yamcha's turn to have his face consumed by color, and he bowed his head to the cluttered floor while his skull throbbed in dull pain as the rest of the group chuckled in appreciation for the hilarious mental image.

"Just kiss him already, why don't you?" Tienshinhan boredly interjected, folding his arms as Bulma scoffed and her eyes searched the ceiling for the punch line whilst her hands continued to rummage through the clothes.

"Been there, done that. Not going back." she dryly replied with no further comment from Yamcha save an obligatory eye roll from him for times gone by. After another passing moment, Bulma tossed Goku the lesser of wrinkled shirts that she had discovered through her foraging and sighed, running a hand through perfectly combed blue hair.

"Take that one. I give up." She held her hands up as a testament to whatever deity was listening and journeyed to the edge of the room where the disorder began to thin and one could actually sit. Goku allowed an unmolested yawn to pass his lips, departed from the comfort of his bed, and quickly beat feet out of the room to journey down the hallway to the bathroom to hurry up and change. The low buzz of conversation that exuded from his bedroom carried on in his wake.

* * *

Gulping in desperate mouthfuls of air from the refuge the back of their new homeroom offered, Goku and Krillin slumped in exhausted victory in their seats, clothes rumpled and schoolbag latches popped open to prompt the papers, binders, leaflets, and half-scribbled memos for the next day to spill out in disarray on the surface of their desks.

"I—I thought—" Krillin gasped, a hand tucked behind his head for support and a bright sheen on his bald head from the glaring light of the fluorescent panes incorporated into the ceiling, "—that we'd never make it on time."

"Yeah—" Goku breathlessly agreed, "—who knew—it'd be so hard to find our class."

It had certainly been a trial for the two of them; they had struggled to find them as they parted ways with Tienshinhan and Chiaotzu, who had the same Ceramics class in the morning with Ms. Baba, Roshi's sister and their great-aunt (a relative who they claimed was all bark and no bite, especially so with her grand-nephews); waved off Yamcha who muttered about supplementary classes with a certain Ms. Launch, and wished Bulma a generous helping of luck as, being the insufferable genius that she was, was a freshman enrolled in the courses that juniors would regularly take and was off to go to have a quick conference about her schedule with the principal, Mr. Toriyama.

However, as they did so, Goku and Krillin had forgotten to ask for directions. So, in the gap of fifteen minutes in which they could have leisurely strolled about the halls and taken in the new sights and ways of the expansive hallways of their new high school, they spent it frenetically scrambling up and down the rapidly emptying aisles as they searched for their first-period English classroom, a classroom they barely shoved through the doorway of before the bell rang and they collapsed into the closest available desks, ignoring the odd glance or stare aimed their way.

"Wh-what class is this again?" Goku mouthed dumbly to his friend, and palmed with clumsy hands for his schedule (both were nearly identical, thank the stars) and looked to Krillin as he recovered it first and looked to it with a glassy, exhausted glance that seemed to belie his current state of transcending to another dimension.

"A-advanced English," he muttered back, and then allowed himself to slump and rest his chin on the surface of a scrubbed-clean, semi-reflective desk before allowing a sigh to escape him.

"What?" Goku nearly shouted, fatigue lost to the wind in the moment, before recalling the quiet nature of the classroom (of course, until they entered it) and then remembered to whisper. "I thought you and I were going to regular English!"

"Maybe they ran out of space in the regular," Krillin said, eyes narrowing as he returned the slip of paper to his field of vision, quickly scanning over it again to double-check. Lo and behold, there was an 'advanced' in place of where they expected 'regular' to be, "Besides," he added, "what's wrong with a little challenge?"

He offered his friend an encouraging, imploring shrug and hopeful expression that went unreciprocated before Goku dropped his head into the crook of his arm and slumped on the table, muttering into it, "Yeah, in _martial arts_ , but not in _school_ or anything like that…"

Krillin rolled his eyes to the heavens for guidance. It was anyone's guess how Goku had passed eighth grade (though Bulma and Tien could certainly be given credit where credit was due); especially considering how much the boy devoted his time, above anything else, to martial arts. One might call it living up to his Gong Gong's legacy if he wasn't so darn obsessed about it. He certainly wouldn't let something like _school_ bring him down, after all.

"Well, _I'm_ actually kind of looking forward to the challenge." Goku heard as the petulant reply as he felt his attention span quickly drooping down to seconds at best, his best friend's voice quickly turning into a quiet buzz in the distance as he felt his mind drifting to other planes of existence.

The classroom wasn't his forte while the dojo was definitely so, so why bother dealing with it? It certainly didn't matter that it was the first day or that he was missing out on anything important, and he _had_ missed out on a few minutes of sleep…maybe there was something called freshmanitis after all. The edges of his vision began to darken and blur with the familiar edges of hazing vision and comforting accompanying sleep.

Ignored was Krillin's rambling as he apparently went on to extol the virtues of Advanced English, and formed a makeshift pillow with his backpack, shoulders already slumping with the promise of rest. After all, he had missed out on a few minutes thanks to Bulma waking him up. He was snoring within seconds; Goku couldn't remember falling asleep that fast in years.

Unfortunately, when he woke up, he couldn't believe how fast he was given a detention for napping in years either.

* * *

Second period was Physics, and as boring as the first, passing by inconsequentially and peppered with a few sparse minutes where Goku could nap and Krillin kept careful watch. But third period was where Goku and Krillin parted ways; he to Chinese 3-4 and Krillin to Creative Writing. They waved goodbye to each other, Krillin with an optimistic gaze in his eyes and Goku with a small, goofy smile that mirrored his friend's as he ambled to the language bungalows.

At Toriyama High and the surrounding communities, they were predominantly Asian and so the language courses offered at the high school and middles schools preceding them provided Chinese and Japanese. Son Gohan and Goku spoke in Chinese at home already, as did the Roshi household with the occasional Japanese; the situation was common for many households and so many parents enrolled their children in earlier years to finish their in high school and receive their language credit, thus making room for other classes.

However, Goku had gotten a late start, starting only in eighth grade, and Krillin had decided to get more in touch with the less oft-used language of his house, so he was taking Japanese 1-2 at a later period. For Goku, it meant one less period with his best friend, as well as the person who would so usually cover for him in his classes.

Inside the Chinese 3-4 room, it was devoid of life save for a few students who hailed from nearby classrooms such as he, unfamiliar and conversing quietly in the language of the classroom in seats they had conferred for themselves; he himself looked for a decent seat in the pristine classroom with walls plastered with posters extolling the virtues of the native country, and settled on one in the middle. He settled into it with a sigh and leaned back to admire the ceiling—now this was a class that he actually spoke the language of, to pardon the pun, so it wouldn't hurt relaxing in here now and then—

"Goku? _Son_ Goku?" a vaguely familiar voice asked, and Goku turned to look at the call of his name, looking up to a pretty, young Chinese girl dressed in an outfit reminiscent of Chinese heritage, but modern enough to be interpreted otherwise. She approached hesitantly, nervously, as if he might not recognize her.

Well, he didn't.

After a moment of exchanging blank expressions, the girl offered a shy smile and spoke, sitting down next to him and placing her backpack with an audible _thud_ on the table beside his.

"I don't blame you," she said, "it's been _ages_ since we saw each other at Kame House; the only reason I recognized you was because of your hair! It's me, Chi-Chi Qiáng."

A dim, very dim, light bulb went off in Goku's head, as he recalled his Gong Gong introducing him to one of his and Roshi's old students from years before. He vaguely recollected a giant of a man that barely fit through the doorway, and the small spitfire of a girl that protectively clutched his hand in the foreign territory of Kame House; he was instructed by his grandfather to shake hands with her as the giant, appearance made fuzzy by the progression of memory, his grandfather, and Mûten Roshi shared a meaningful glance before ushering them off to play. However, beyond there, the memory began to taper out.

"Chi-Chi?" he repeated, recognition consuming his expression. "Oh yeah! Ox Qiáng's daughter, I remember you! Didn't you trip me down the stairs?"

His expression of innocence amalgamated with passivity and tipped off by a prompting cheerful grin did nothing to lessen the blush that consumed her face for immaturity she apparently hoped had passed with middle school, and offered him an awkward grin.

"Yeah; I overreacted a lot back then; sorry about that. I was kind of hoping you wouldn't remember _that,"_ she flushed, and he snickered, not unkindly.

"Well, it _was_ a little hard to forget—"

Their conversation was abruptly interrupted by the figure that sat down with a scrape of metal chair legs on tile next to Chi-Chi, giving her pause to turn and look up with a smile of familiarity. Goku followed suit, and this time, didn't hesitate in recognizing the person, who immediately reciprocated as he laid eyes on Goku.

"Oh, lemme introduce you guys!" Chi-Chi said cheerfully, unaware of the tense moment of animosity that flooded the both of them as they met gazes, "Goku, this is my friend—"

_"Piccolo?"_ Goku asked, the cheerful expression vanished and replaced by mild confusion and blatant hostility. "I didn't know you were coming to Toriyama."

"I'm full of surprises," replied the broad-shouldered Namekian that across from him and narrowed his eyes, folding his arms over his chest. "Glad to see you passed middle school. I thought for sure you were going to be held back."

"You—you two know each other already?" Chi-Chi asked as she looked between the two, offering a nervous smile as she began to sense the growing antagonism between the two of them. She observed apprehensively as Goku's lackadaisical posturing in his seat became more reserved and confined, almost as if he were ready to pounce.

That they 'knew' each other was an understatement. They had 'known' each other since the beginning of middle school, when a quiet, subdued rivalry quickly grew into a bitter and dangerous competition that on several equations nearly evolved into old-fashioned fisticuffs no matter the time or place; whether before, during, or after school. The fact that their relatives had come from opposing dojo certainly didn't help the matter, combined with the additional detail that they were both schooled in the individual martial arts exhorted at their respective schools made it worse. There had been several times Krillin and Tien had to physically restrain him from taking a crack at Piccolo Daimo.

And here he was, sitting across from him in Chinese 3-4, supposed friends with an old acquaintance from Kame House.

"Yeah, we know each other." Goku replied, offering a glare to Piccolo that the Namekian eagerly returned.

"Are you trying out for the Martial Arts Team, Son?" Piccolo asked, making it sound more like an insult than a question, glowering at him.

"Yeah. Is there something wrong with that?" he retorted hotly, trying to make it sound like a curse but only sounding defensive and immature in the process (after all, being nasty wasn't in his nature, even for special exceptions like his new tablemate). It didn't go unnoticed by Piccolo, who smirked and awaited a reply.

"You _are?_ That's great!" Chi-Chi grinned, quickly trying to broach the problem before it evolved into something beyond her control; she was not oblivious to the aggression that was pervading the atmosphere and chose another, quieter route. With a sharp jab, she elbowed Piccolo in the arm to reprimand his antisocial attitude and he grunted, more irritated than injured. "Piccolo and I are too, on Saturday and Sunday. What style are you demonstrating?"

Goku was easy enough to influence from other prickly topics, as martial arts was his life (although Chi-Chi's companion didn't care much for the distraction and settled in his seat with a noise of chagrin), and replied with a broad beam of pride, "Zui Quan; Drunken Monkey Branch. My Gong Gong and I have been working on it together for years."

"It's a simple style," was Chi-Chi's reply, ignoring the scoff of disbelief from her desk companion who obviously wanted to voice his opinion beyond a noise of derision, "But it gives a wide offense and solid defense; good powerful punches and kicks. I'm sure you'll do great with it."

Goku was unsubtly impressed with her prior knowledge of the technique, and was about to ask her what style she would use to demonstrate for tryouts, but was interrupted by the bell that ended passing period and the call of the teacher in Chinese to attention. He and Piccolo exchanged an obligatory scowl between the two of them before they turned their attention to the front.

* * *

During lunch, Toriyama High roared with the sound of activity spilling from its aged marble pillars and into its expansive courtyards, out into the surrounding environment of life; it could ebb to a low buzz and peak to a crest of emotion and it ran rampant in the hour that the student population was allowed to relieve themselves of the hardships of school. Lunch became a reprieve and a privilege everyone sorely looked forward to.

"So, how's the first day of school treating you guys so far?" Yamcha asked as he leaned back in the grass shaded by the expansive tree the group claimed as their corner for lunch; Tien and Chiaotzu were on one side and Bulma on the other.

"It's all right; World History is boring. I felt like I was gonna pass out, but then I would've gotten a detention on the first day like Goku." Krillin teased, shooting him a good-natured grin that Goku returned, eyes narrowed and tongue sticking out.

"Damn, detention already? Didn't think you had it in you," Yamcha smirked teasingly, setting an arched brow on his freshman compatriot who bobbed his shoulders up in a shrug.

"I have to go tomorrow during lunch, so it sucks, but at least it wasn't for _two_ days." Goku replied with a nonchalant smile, and began to tuck into the soup that looked rather suspicious in texture but was surprisingly tasty.

"But some of the teachers here seem decent, though," Krillin added, "Most of the kids seem pretty cool too."

"That's the spirit," Yamcha said, closing his eyes as he reclined on the grass to enjoy the breeze that sighed through the grass. "But the crucial thing here is finding if you want to _invest_ your _time_ in any of these said 'kids.'" He offered a grin, eyes still closed, that didn't spare any of the entendre he implied.

"Subtlety isn't your strong suit, honey," Bulma rolled her eyes teasingly to the cloudless heavens at his attempts to do so, but went on to add; "Besides, even if we asked _you,_ you'd've changed your mind by the next period!"

"Yeah, especially unlike _some_ devoted people we know," at this, Yamcha extended a hand to pat Tien's ankle, which he brushed away with a noise of exasperation, "crushing on the same person since freshman year, what a brave little trooper!"

"Oh, shut up." Tien fired back, "at least I have the courage to stay with the same one."

"But at least I have the brains to know when it's hopeless," Yamcha retaliated, with a smile that only knew he was all-too-ready for another battle of retorts, something that, knowing their need to constantly clash, could go on for hours. But for everyone else it just meant they would tune out the two of them until they decided to return to reality.

"So, anything else exciting happen so far?" Chiaotzu asked cheerily from in between the two debating, taking the helm of the conversation until it was returned to someone else.

"Nothing much," Bulma returned the prompting of conversation, "I have a few classes with this jerk, Vegeta? I think that's what his name was?"

_"Vegeta?"_ Krillin asked, furrowing his brow in bewilderment. "What kind of a name is 'Vegeta'?"

Bulma shrugged, taking a rather pointed bite of her sandwich. "I don't know. But we had to do these dumb icebreakers in Calculus to 'get to know everyone'—"—she made air-quotes with her fingers at this point, having placed her sandwich in her lap for the moment—"—and he introduced himself as Vegeta Oji. He's trying out for the Martial Arts team next week 'cause he just transferred here—we had to say something about ourselves too—so you guys'll probably see him then."

"Well, if he's trying out for the Martial Arts team, he can't be that bad," Goku tried to amend her statement as he chose to follow Yamcha's suit and recline in the grass, ignoring Bulma's muttered jibe about 'testosterone' and 'you're all idiots,' and deigned to admire the cloudless sky. He looked sidelong, curiously, as Krillin chose to follow the leader and join him as he sprawled back.

"To be honest," Krillin said, "I could go for the extra sleep too."

Goku smiled, and closed his eyes, substituting Bulma and Chiaotzu's attempt to break up what seemed to be devolving into fisticuffs between Yamcha and Tienshinhan for a lullaby, quietly eager for the new school year, but at the moment, more eager for some sleep.


	2. September 9th-Bulma Briefs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second day of school, and Bulma is next up on the list!

**September 9th-Bulma Briefs**

The harsh, irritable blare of the bell that echoed throughout the extensive grounds of Toriyama High not only signified to Bulma Briefs that she was late, but that she was going to slowly murder her friends (a title she was _definitely_ considering rescinding at the moment) as soon as she saw them.

Barreling through the open gates with a cumbersome backpack that threatened to jostle its way off her shoulders if she ran any faster and an outfit unsuitable for running (or for that matter, _any_ physical activity save sitting and looking pretty) threatening to deny her blood circulation to the rest of her body, she made a ragged, winded beeline as sandals smacked on unforgiving asphalt, for her first period class, Calculus BC.

The Wednesday morning Bulma had woken up to with an adjusted alarm clock and subdued, drowsy optimism hadn't begun like this, of course. She had begun it in her regular, premeditated routine that involved the heavy-handed beautification that older, more experienced women would have paled in the face of, at an unhurried, sequential pace. Beauty couldn't be rushed, after all.

Unfortunately, when school started in ten minutes, it certainly could. A quick glance to the clock that involved nearly swallowing her toothbrush whole quickly defused the calm repose of the situation that she had assumed and sent her into the tranquil, unfrazzled response of full-blown panic. It was not quite explicable how quickly she had attempted the inhuman speeds that she did, but within the next three minutes she found herself dressed, prepared, and out the door, sprinting towards Toriyama High. Somehow, once more inexplicably performed, she covered a distance that would have taken fifteen minutes walking in seven.

And so as she found herself in the final stretch, thoughts interchanging between 'this isn't going in my valedictorian speech' and 'those bastards freaking ditched me' and 'I have never been more screwed than in this instance,' she found to her immense relief, the door of her first-period bungalow approaching. This beautiful sight immediately prompted a sound akin to a dying animal to escape her in a sigh of relief.

It only took a few seconds more to complete the distance between the two points. As she approached it, she took ample time as she did so to return her feverish, frazzled appearance to one of nonchalant organization (or at least one that wouldn't denote her hectic arrival to the school). Upon accomplishing that, she allowed an exasperated noise of defeat to pass from her and placed a hand on the doorknob, turning her wrist inward.

The sensation of all eyes turning at the unfamiliar noise and her arrival was an uncomfortable one that she didn't enjoy even in more ideal situations, but one that in the moment she supposed she would have to resign herself to.

With an awkward grimace she sidled into the classroom, the door shutting behind her with a strident _bang_ that made her twitch in surprise and her countenance twist up in an embarrassing moment of fear. The rude giggle or two at her loss of composure only provoked her cheeks to redden, making her gut twist with anxiety.

Her teacher did nothing to alleviate it, as she asked with an arched brow, "Late on the second day, Ms. Briefs?"

She found her voice surprisingly quickly. "Sorry," she said, standing gawkily in the doorway, unsure of where else to sit as the penetrating gazes of her classmates only seemed to dare her to join their ranks, to leave the label of 'outsider' that she had walked into, "I didn't set my alarm properly."

"I guessed," her teacher replied sarcastically but not unsympathetically, and when Bulma didn't make any move to sit, motioned to the first empty seat with a careless gesture of her hand. "Just take this seat for now."

Bulma moved with a speed grateful for the respite, ignoring the eyes that continued to bore into her and assumed the seat, trying to calm down her heart that threatened to burst from her chest. She had never reached a desk faster than in that moment, pulling it from under the table with fumbling, trembling hands before relaxing into it. Her backpack remained clutched in her lap, like an anchor to weigh her down to her seat.

Another moment passed before she permitted herself to set a surveying glance across the room, and satisfied that she was released from the vice of attention, snuck a hand into a flap of her backpack with a small _pop_ of a clasp. Her hand resurfaced with her phone as she kept a cautious eye on the teacher who had dutifully returned to instruction. After all, the only thing worse than coming late to class would be losing her phone as well.

Without any conscious thought, she managed to pull up her message inbox whilst ignoring the audible drone of the teacher in favor of texting a contact she had labeled as 'Yamcha Roshi.'

_Hey, I know your phone's on, and I know you know you guys ditched me this morning._ She texted, manicured nails tapping against the screen, allowing a momentary glance up every second or so to place on her teacher before returning her gaze to the artificial glow of her device. _And I want to let you know that the next time I see you, you're DEAD meat._

She thought for a moment, and then punctuated the end of the statement.

_Ass._

That was satisfying enough; she hit send and then pocketed the phone quickly and discreetly, exchanging it with a pencil and spare piece of paper as she inclined her head to her tablemate in a whisper, "Is there anything that happened before I got here?"

After a moment of absolute silence, Bulma turned her head to see who her table-partner was and immediately regretted doing so. She made eye contact with a scowl that would send even the fiercest cowering (and oh, if looks could kill), did she do so with Vegeta Oji. He was the boy who the previous day had introduced himself during icebreakers in the tersest terms possible, and seemed ready to murder any person who so much looked at him with less than the respect that he seemed to implicitly command.

Namely, a person that she had no intentions of putting up with any of his crap. If being best friends with the motley crew of uncivilized brutes that she would hesitate to call 'men' had taught her anything, it was the more one pandered to the entitlement a person thought they deserved, disregarding their desire for it was not only much more effective, but a great way to piss 'em off.

And with the horrendous fashion the morning had devolved into, there was nothing but the ancient power of insurgence and bitterness coursing through her veins. It could be compared to the child who finds the sweet, primal urge to throw rocks at the hornet's nest (idiotic and unwise, but tempting all the same).

Save the rush of adrenaline that seized her heart when she meet eyes with him, she mustered up all of the self-restraint to suppress what she tenderly referred to as 'piss-inducing terror' and offered an eye-roll to him in a fashion that would have made the Roshi siblings and Son grandkid proud. With a disdainful shake of her head, she disregarded the solicitation for information that clearly wouldn't be coming from her classmate anytime soon.

"Ugh, forget I asked." She didn't voice the _'jerk'_ that wanted to emerge as well, and after a mental self-commendation to herself she turned around in her seat to propose the question to another, more sociable person. Thankfully, she was unaware of the glare focused in her direction before it refocused once more on the classroom instructor.

* * *

It was following a fruitless passing period in which Bulma could find neither head nor tail of Yamcha, Chiaotzu, and Tien, who she could have sworn at least intersected her route once (leave it to her friends, who wouldn't blink an eye stepping into the martial arts ring to duke it out being scared shitless of a fourteen-year-old girl (although it would be lying to say she wasn't pretty pissed)), that she sidled into AP Environmental Science, which was humming with idle conversation before the ring of the bell.

Thankfully, this time no one even glanced in her direction when she entered the room (though whether this was a bad thing was yet to be seen) and looked for the familiar face that shared a table with in this class (Bulma could have sworn that she was also in her Calculus class, she'd have to check later).

"You look happy to be here." Bulma sardonically commented to her new acquaintance (as of yesterday) as she took her seat. She looked with a sympathetic smile to the blonde-haired girl with sharp blue eyes that shared her gaze for a moment and then away to the tacky 'science can change the _world!'_ poster with a contemptuous scoff.

"Don't get me started," Eighteen Gero shook her head in unabashed impatience, "if I have to hear another person's favorite color, I think I'm going to ditch."

Yesterday, Bulma had arched an eyebrow, as she had assumed everyone else in the classroom had done, when Eighteen answered with a bored 'here' at the call of her name. But, she supposed that there were odder things to be named and decided to just accept it and move along. (The fact that she had a brother named Seventeen in Calculus with her and a little brother in the sophomore class named Sixteen only made it more interesting (Bulma heard there was a fourth sibling, but she didn't know his name.))

"Nice entrance to first period, though," Eighteen added, and Bulma glanced over to see a look on her face that she wouldn't exactly label 'empathetic,' but at the very least acknowledging, "great way to make an impression."

It was Bulma's turn to shake her head in exasperation. "Don't get _me_ started on that."

She paused in the conversation to retrieve her phone for any new notifications; she had checked constantly during first period to see any reply, and there was still none. Even over the phone, Yamcha was still too much of a chicken to apologize.

"See, I would've made it to school on time, but—" Bulma began to elaborate, but stopped short as she turned to see that Eighteen had clearly assumed the conversation had come to an end and placed rather bulky pink headphones over her ears. From where Bulma sat, she could hear grating, tinny pop music exuding from their speakers.

Oh well. She'd work on that.

The next period on her list was European History; at Toriyama, there were four different history classes: freshmen took World History, Sophomores Asian History, Juniors European History, and Seniors Political Science or Government and Economics. The fact that she got to skip and actually go beyond a class than any of her group of friends gave her a bit of a surge of pride (but considering that these were, once more, _her_ friends that she was talking about, she wasn't sure if it was more a feeling of pride or relief that she had maintained her brain cells).

For this class, it took her passing period to return to the bungalows, and still recover no sign that her 'friends' had ever existed to her growing chagrin. She barely avoided a repeat of first period by ducking through the door a second before the bell rang. By haphazardly throwing her (exponentially increasing in mass) backpack on it with a _thud_ to punctuate the act, she claimed the nearest empty seat. It was following the completion of this that she sought to regain her lost breath, ungracefully slumping in her seat behind the bag like a soldier in the trenches. Shoulders heaving, she closed her eyes, enjoying the cold feel of the table surface pressed against her cheek as her arms formed a pillow for her head to relax in.

"Move your bag."

Bulma blinked an eye open to admire the wall she faced on her left as she heard a vaguely familiar voice from her right that spoke from behind her massive column of a bag. Instinctively her brow furrowed in irritation.

"I'll move it when I feel like moving it; I just wanna catch my breath again." Was the vociferated, perturbed response from her. Seriously, had people no respect for the invalid?

"It's on _my_ desk." Was the reply; it sounded strained, as if the person was struggling to restrain themselves in infuriation and irritation; it was most likely the sense of entitlement in their words that made Bulma react so cantankerously in return.

"Oh, well, if _your royal_ highness wants it done—" she sat up with a glower that would have put many to shame and a huff of exasperation, reaching out a hand to clutch the strap of her bag (which, she noticed but didn't care, _was_ on their desk) and angled her head to glare at her tablemate.

_You again_ was what she was sure was the thought that went through both of their minds as she locked gazes with Vegeta Oji for the second time that day.

_Oh shit_ was most likely the second.

The both of them paused for a pregnant moment, caught in the awkward situation of clashing personalities forced to coexist again in the classroom.

Bulma came to her senses first, and pulled her somewhat surprised, mollified expression into a scowl as she pulled the backpack across the table to her, a low squeak reverberating through their shared desk as she did so.

"Happy?" she asked once the accusing bag was returned to her embrace, and her scowl only grew as Vegeta turned away from her to look to the front of the class, arms folding over his chest.

"Terribly." His voice was dripping with sarcasm.

_Asshole._ She thought, but thankfully didn't say as she followed suit.

* * *

It was at lunch that she finally found her group again, much to her vicious, enraged joy; after all, they couldn't escape from her at the one place where they could relax, no matter how much they feared her, could they? She had to admit, it gave her quite a rush of adrenaline to see the fear in their eyes as she approached from the distance, bag over one shoulder and binder in her other hand, brandished like a weapon. There was nowhere they could run; they were in plain sight and even if they did split up, she would torture the one she chased after until they relented in helping her find the others.

After spending the first five minutes of their happy, joyful second day of school lunch with Bulma yelling at them until she turned as blue as her hair for leaving her asleep in her bed (amidst their clamors of poorly-made excuses as to why they just _had_ to leave her sleeping), leaving her group standing around the grass hill shamefaced as they admired their feet, and above all, wondering what had ever possessed them to leave _her_ in the first place.

Bulma then settled for expelling the rest of her fury with a few well-placed punches to wherever they landed first. She would happily admit that she had more than a couple choice ones saved up for Yamcha, who suffered the brunt of it.

"And if you guys ever do that again, I'm gonna do more than just _hit_ you!" Bulma concluded as she joined them on the grass, opening up the plastic container of her lunch with a sharp, audible _snap_ before she began to eat.

"Ow, jeez, all right," Yamcha said as he nursed what he was sure was going to be a very ugly bruise, rubbing his arm vigorously as he sat to join her and the rest of the group followed suit, tentatively nursing their respective injuries. "Just go easy; I like my arm where it is just fine."

All he got in response was a pompous sniff from her, before she swallowed and asked a question, back to the regular, rageless Bulma she (hopefully) usually was (at least for the moment).

"So, did you guys get that athletics pass you guys were talking about after school yesterday?" she inquired as she looked up, admiring her handiwork as her friends considered her question.

"The Martial Arts Team tryouts? Yeah." Krillin said, tentative about being the first to respond but doing so anyways. "The coach was just as bad as you guys said he would be."

The Martial Arts team tryouts were a week from today and they all needed a pass from their sixth-period PE class to get it; yesterday on the walk home Goku and Krillin had been gushing with the overwhelming excitement that tempered their fears for the dreaded date.

"Oh, yeah," Tien said, looking to Krillin and Goku, the only freshmen in their small cluster trying out. "He pulled all the freshmen trying out over yesterday during PE, didn't he? He looked like he was in a good mood."

"That was one of his good moods?" Krillin asked, assuming an expression of disbelief. "I thought he was gonna bite someone's head off!"

"Well, when you've got the last name 'Satan,'" Yamcha said with a smirk as he leaned back into the grass with a contented sigh, "I figure that you've got a lot to compensate for in that department."

"I still can't believe the Martial Arts coach is called 'Mr. Satan,'" Bulma shook her head with a contemptuous scoff, "I mean, he's _totally_ gotta be trustworthy."

"It's actually 'Hercule Satan,'" Chiaotzu grinned with a fake air of crude snobbery that most likely emulated his old teacher, "and 'don't you forget it.'"

"Not that he would ever let us do it in the first place," Tien muttered under his breath as looked to the heavens for guidance, but then turned to his brother with a wry smile. "I'm not sure what was smarter, going back to the team or dropping out like you did this year."

Chiaotzu shrugged casually and responded cheerfully. "I just want to make it to graduation without any brain damage."

"Besides, it's not like Chiaotzu has a certain _someone_ on the team that _he's_ waiting for," Bulma interjected with a flirtatious bat of her eyelashes, itching to get a jab in (after all, her pride still was ruffled). Tien shot her a sharp, narrow glare that would have actually had some bite to it, were they not friends. The fact that a blush caught his cheeks only softened the factor of intimidation he would have been inclined to had it been anyone else.

"You guys are going to run out of jokes for that one day," Tien commented in defeat as he turned to the contents of his backpack to search for something apparently more interesting that getting involved in that particular conversation once more.

"Well, don't count on it anytime soon." Bulma replied with an unabashed smile, and then looked to Krillin, who was currently in the process of devouring his lunch. "Hey, Krillin, did you ever get the homework for Japanese class next period from your table partner yesterday? I was gonna ask you about it last night or this morning,"—at this she allowed a moment to pause to twist the knife just one last time, "—but I forgot."

"Japanese homework?" Krillin asked through a garbled mouthful of rice, and then swallowed thickly as the quiet flush of nearing panic consumed his cheeks. "We had Japanese homework?"

_Well,_ Bulma thought as she stood up with a winning smile to go have a friendly conversation with her friend most likely involving the liberal use of her fists, _at least I know this isn't going in my valedictorian speech, either._

* * *

"Thank you _so much,"_ Bulma said, words suffused with all the exasperated gratefulness she could muster, "you have no idea how much we owe you."

"I figured," Eighteen said with a dry, droll of sarcasm to her words as the three of them made the journey to Japanese 1-2, Bulma on the left, Eighteen in the middle, and Krillin on the right. They had found Eighteen a few minutes before the bell rang and copied the entirety of the homework from her (a diagnostic previous knowledge quiz that Krillin answered perfectly and Bulma stared at for a long, long time until she began to copy off of Krillin). "But it's fine; I just would have figured that it wouldn't be the Asian kid and genius freshman copying off of the white girl."

She offered them a smile that seemed a bit too keen to be pleasant, and continued the conversation before there could be a pause. "What're you guys even doing taking Japanese _1-2,_ anyways? You already finish Chinese?"

"I finished 5-6 in middle school." Krillin replied with quiet humility, and Eighteen looked to him with a discreet disinterest that thankfully was too subtle for him to comprehend, and then turned to Bulma. "You?"

"I could've taken it with them but I was too lazy." Bulma shrugged indifferently. "No skin off my nose."

"Nice," Eighteen said dispassionately. "I'd believe it a bit more if you weren't a freshman in the junior classes, though."

"I have a feeling I'm gonna get that a lot this year," Bulma returned as Eighteen returned her hands to the pockets of her jean skirt and offered her a disbelieving expression that said, _You think?_

The three of them continued the journey to Japanese 1-2 as Bulma silently wondered if this year was all it was cracked up to be, but quickly allowed the train of thought to unravel as they approached the open door to the classroom and ventured in, ladies first. After a moment, the wind ghosted by and dared the strength to nudge the door forward a few inches before it slowly accelerated and closed in the frame with a quiet _snap._


	3. September 10th-Krillin Yujin

September 10th-Krillin Yūjin

Krillin was not, by any means, a morning person. If there were three things that could be relied upon in this mercurial, rapidly evolving and progressing world, it was that the sun would rise, the earth would continue to turn, and Krillin would sleep through his alarm. Thankfully, that was what he had cousins (and occasionally, irritating female friends) for. This bright and sunny Thursday morning, though, he found it was the former.

"Wake up," came the gruff intonation of a voice still groggy from sleep from across the room, bouncing off the walls of the cramped bedroom. "We have to get ready for school."

Krillin's brow furrowed as he fought to ignore the voice and return to the comforting embrace of sleep. He rolled over on his bed and with a slow, drowsy tug of a balled-up fist and pulled his thin blanket over his shoulder, assuming the fetal position to retain body warmth.

"Jus' five more minutes, Tien," came an irritated yet bleary voice. He dimly recognized it as the voice of his cousin, Yamcha, while from behind the darkness of closed eyes Krillin could hear the creak of bed-springs as the teen shifted his weight, accompanied by the shuffle of a blanket.

"Listen to Yamcha, Tien," uttered Chiaotzu tiredly from the bed strategically placed at Krillin's footboard, framing the room's edges. Chiaotzu was about as much of a morning person as everyone else in the house was.

"If I'm suffering, then you're all suffering with me." Was the calm reply from Tien, and there was a creak of floorboards from bed opposite his that paced over, judging by the groan and bend of the ground below his feet, seemed to be nearing him. Dammit. Krillin rolled over, the faint vestiges of adrenaline beginning to eat through his veins, and he blinked blurrily, vision adjusting quickly as he saw the formidable silhouette of Tien towering over him, framed by the soft sunlight emitting from the window.

Following a jumbled, uncoordinated shamble of movement (Tien could be a bit of a sadist when he woke up people, and he had enough bad memories of being woken up to have had quite enough of it) Krillin found himself sitting up. He gripped with bone-white knuckles onto the dark oak headboard of his bed to prevent himself from toppling over due to the lack of equilibrium.

"I'm—I'm awake." Krillin managed out wearily, narrowing a glare at his older cousin that he returned with a cynical sneer.

"Saves me the trouble," he shrugged, and then rounded on his heel to approach Yamcha, who quickly followed suit (he had been watching the situation with a nervous glance, knowing that he might be next) and didn't hesitate in partaking in an exchange of rude hand gestures with Tien, who, due to being fueled by his weary irritation at waking up early, only eagerly reciprocated. Krillin took the moment to his advantage, scratching at his head, rubbing the smooth baldness of his scalp soothingly as he stretched the other arm to the ceiling, groaning as his spine relocated and his joints followed suit.

"I call the bathroom first," he called dibs (Kame House had one bathroom and it was often the main source of antagonism in the family, best to claim it before anything else) as he hopped out of bed, returning the sensation of feeling to the soles of his feet with a whine of floorboards and dull pain that reverberated to his toes. He didn't hesitate to ignore the calls of 'jerk' and 'seriously?' and 'go choke on your toothbrush' as he exited the room and rounded the corner to descend the stairs, fighting the sleep from his eyes as the sounds of argument and familial squabbles emanated from beyond the room's open door.

It was just another normal morning with the Kame House family.

Following a rushed breakfast in which three out of the four of them fought for the last bit of most likely moldy, crumbling cereal from the box, Krillin decided to pay respects to the ancestors in a quick reprieve from the commotion in the kitchen. When the cereal was depleted, they all made a mad dash for the orange juice that clumped in bits and made the kitchen smell like citrus until they opened the window; following this, they bid their gong gong a hasty goodbye and made tracks for the school.

It was only a few minutes before they intercepted the first person on their trip, who was Bulma, who had made sure that she would wake up in time to intercept them before they escape. The second was Goku, who stumbled out of his house half-dressed and exhausted, papers tumbling in the wind out of the open lip of his backpack. It had taken them all a few minutes to gather them all together, and on the walk to school Krillin had helped Goku bring a bit of semblance to his appearance.

"You were up all night practicing, weren't you?" Krillin accused as they assumed the rear of the group, popping out Goku's collar with a firm thwip. His best friend offered a sleepy shrug in return, giving him a drained, apologetic smile.

"I've almost got the thirty-third routine down," Goku offered, as if it would justify his sleep deprivation. Krillin shook his head as he brushed off the rice on Goku's shirt (most likely from breakfast) away, and smoothed away the crumbs that peppered his shoulders.

"Like I haven't heard that one before." He scoffed, and gave him a warning, cautionary glance. "Goku, you're gonna burn yourself up; you need more sleep if you practice the way you do."

"I will get some sleep! I just need to finish this," Goku said, unapologetically weary as the familiar flames of determination danced in his eyes. Unfortunately, Krillin had seen that all before and knew better. He clasped his hands together in supplication as he locked gazes with Krillin, as if doing so would summon sympathy for him.

"Please, Krillin, I just gotta get three more routines down before we try out."

Of course, it never ended with just 'three,' Krillin had known him far too long for this. 'Three' usually turned into 'five more, come on,' and then transformed into 'I just finished seven last night!' and then usually morphed into the useless, empty oath of 'I promise I'll get some sleep tonight, okay?' And, unfortunately, he had known it was too much to just try to reason with his dumb friend.

"Look, you know you're already gonna make it onto the Martial Arts Team, so why bother practicing?" Krillin asked, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he admitted defeat to the battle he knew he'd never win. He had to admit, though; it was entertaining seeing Goku's look of horror at such a suggestion and snorted at his blatant reaction.

"I'm kidding. Besides, even if I told you to not to, you wouldn't listen, would you?" he grinned at him sidelong to see it returned.

"Well, maaaybe." Goku returned, clasping his hands behind his head, stretching his arms to the heavens. Krillin extended a hand to brush out a few stray crumbs of bread from his flamboyantly spiked hair, knowing full well what the answer was, and the two of them kept up the pace to return to the group.

The first two periods with Goku hadn't been incidental (meaning, he had to keep him awake for both classes so he wouldn't get another detention (which he was actually going in for during lunch today, unfortunately)). They had been assigned homework in English and been told about an end-of-the year project in Physics which would be completed with partners of their choosing.

Krillin had exchanged a nervous glance with Goku who shot him a look of excitement and stifled a groan. Best friend he may be, Krillin could depend on Goku for one thing, and that was not doing his half of anything unless it was martial arts.

Then they had waved goodbye to each other, and Krillin had turned on his heel in the direction of what he knew was beginning to think was a new favorite class: Creative Writing.

Although it wasn't certainly something that he'd let any of his group know, he was certainly warming up to it. It could be considered an outlet that didn't end up with him leaving with a black eye or busted jaw, and plus, he would be wrong if he didn't say the class was warm and inviting. The teacher was a young, friendly woman named Ms. Launch, with long black hair and a friendly, pleasant face; she had dispelled all of their nervousness about what a class like Creative Writing might be and pleasantly welcomed them in.

"Hey, guys. How're you holding up?" Krillin asked as he approached his seat, where he sat in between two familiar faces from previous PE classes and visits to the house, attributed to his elder cousins' high school friendships founded before he himself enrolled.

One, Namekian (though thankfully not the one he affiliated with Goku's rivalry) offered him a tired grimace as he turned, and the other, broad-shouldered and sporting a red Mohawk, turned as well and inclined his head curtly, acknowledging his arrival.

"Better than you, that's for sure," Nail Daimo, the Namekian, said, and pulled out Krillin's chair for him, which Krillin gratefully took and slumped into.

"What makes you say that?" he asked, easing the strap of his backpack off of his shoulder to rest on the surface of his table as he retrieved a pencil.

"You look like the dead. If you keep that up, you might not be in any shape to try out for the Martial Arts Team." Nail replied. On the other side of Krillin, Sixteen Gero nodded in agreement, setting a stern, reprimanding glance on him.

"You need proper rest if you want to try out. It's not worth it if it costs you sleep." The teen (although it felt demeaning to call him that, he was a regular giant, even taller than Tien!) intoned sternly.

"Don't worry about me," Krillin reassured them with a grin, holding up his hands in self-defense, "I've been trying to get all the sleep I can. You want to blame anyone for my sleep deprivation, blame Tien."

Nail cracked an amused smile as Sixteen returned to the paper before him on the desk, massive frame bending over the desk minute in comparison. "Still a hard-ass on you guys?"

"When has he ever not been?" Krillin grinned, but shook his head, waving away the affectionate insult from the two of them and returned an inquisitive yet teasing gaze up to his conversational companion. "Besides, shouldn't you guys be worrying more about losing sleep? I mean, being the new Managers and all."

Nail scoffed. "Not likely; if anything, I'll be getting more sleep not having to treat any new black eyes or bleeding noses from sparring. Besides, it looks like this year's team is going to be a good one."

Nail Daimo, a Namekian junior, and Sixteen Gero, a human sophomore, were the two new Managers for the Martial Arts Team. In layman's terms, they were co-coaches that didn't have to participate in competition. Instead, they would aid and train the rest of the team in preparation for upcoming school matches or contests and have first say as to the future of the team in any issue that might surface.

Due to tryouts near the end of summer (Yamcha had said he was too lazy; Tien said that he liked competing too much, although Krillin could vividly remember that Sixteen had asked him to try out with him (talk about unexpected friendships)), those who proved themselves advanced enough could assume the rank for the rest of their high school careers. Once it was filled, the rank couldn't be replaced unless under extreme circumstances.

And apparently in those tryouts, Nail and Sixteen had proved that they were capable enough to hold their own, as well as the rest of their team. Krillin could only idly wonder, from what his cousins had gossiped about, about what the older Gero siblings thought about their younger brother surpassing them both in Martial Arts.

"You really think so?" Krillin asked, dubiously so; after all, a team that had him, Goku, Tien, and Yamcha couldn't exactly be considered exemplary.

"Don't believe what Hercule says about your potential. He gives that speech to all of the newcomers trying out because he thinks it'll make you tougher before you try out." Sixteen said, interrupting the conversation as he finished the header to his paper for the period, admiring it for a cursory second before capping his pen with a click. "Don't let it get to you."

Krillin recalled the 'thrilling' speech from Coach Hercule Satan the previous day and promptly continued to suppress it.

"I wasn't counting on it." He evenly replied, and offered Sixteen a polite smile. "But thanks."

Lunch passed by uneventfully; Krillin regrouped with his friends and for the first time that year they had peaceful conversation and shared a laugh or two; Bulma complained about that 'Vegeta jerk;' (Krillin wondered if it was the same one that was trying out next week) apparently her class had a new year-long project to work on to improve communicational skills and they were paired up with their seat partners. She was less than enthused with her new collaborator.

Chiaotzu was excited; there was a field trip to China arranged by the Chinese classes at the end of the year and if anything, he was determined to save up the money to go, and damn if Tien was tired from trying to keep up with him. Yamcha, following suit, was keen on having a nap instead. Krillin wondered how Goku was faring in detention.

Well, if they don't give him lunch, probably gnawing on the tables right now, He mused.

Following lunch, he returned to Japanese 1-2, where he sat next to Sixteen's older sister and had polite, terse conversation with her before the class began.

"Rough day?" he asked as he sat down next to her, formally as he could. She looked up to him and upon registering his presence, looked down to her blank sheet, tidy vertical columns enabled for writing Japanese characters.

"Yup," she said. "Not expecting it to get any better now."

"What makes you say that?" he asked, trying to further the conversation as best he could without overstepping any boundaries. Her shoulder, inclined away from his direction, seemed to be communicating that he was doing so and for a moment she paused with an answer prepared but quickly replaced it. (He wondered what her original statement was going to be.)

"Well...it is Japanese. Maybe it's easy to you, being Asian and all, but it's all Greek to me." she said, attempting a joke (still infused with sarcasm) but not even following it with a smile as she looked at him with a blank, quietly exasperated expression.

"Well, if you need any help, just ask me." Krillin offered her the smile she didn't allow to surface. "I mean, me being Asian and all."

At that, Eighteen did smile, if but to turn up a corner of her mouth (she had a dimple), before she blew away with a sharp puff of air a stray strand of blonde hair before turning back to her blank sheet to scribble her name in the allotted box. "Thanks."

Meanwhile, on his other side, as the teacher began to instruct basic rules of grammar and diction, he and Bulma tried to comprehend basic stroke order and come to the sickening realization that they had been writing the characters wrong for their entire lives. Bulma claimed denial and Krillin planned revenge on his gong gong the next time he saw him.

After this class, Krillin found Goku again in Geometry as they sidled into the small, white-washed class together.

"How was detention?" Krillin asked, pulling out a chair to ease into it. Goku made a whining noise of scorn, slumping into his seat, disorganized hair sagging with the motion.

"They didn't give us lunch until the last ten minutes of it." He complained.

"That bad, huh?" he absentmindedly replied. "That sucks."

"It did. But d'you wanna know something?" Goku asked, and his shoulders broadened, eyes dancing with the promise of a secret that he was sure only he knew.

"What?" Krillin asked, assuming an expression of passive interest.

"Y'know that guy that Bulma was complaining about, that Vegeta guy? The jerk that keeps talking about beating everyone the MA team all the time during PE?"

"What about him?"

"Well, he was at the detention too. I sat right next to him."

"Really?" Krillin straightened up, taking an interest in the conversation. "What was he there for?"

Goku gave a bob of his shoulders as a response. "Dunno. But he looked really pissed."

"Well, he always looks really angry." Krillin amended the statement, and Goku giggled immaturely, replying with a simple, "That's for sure."

Geometry continued by slowly, immeasurably slow and eternally trying in its tedium. The two of them were relieved when the bell rang and summoned them to their next period, which was PE. Although the allure was exciting in itself, the idea of having to put up with the coach was less than enthusing.

The gym itself was cleared save for the clusters of people that unconsciously sequestered themselves, in order to consult with their coaches for the sports they aspired to try out for. In one corner was football, in another, tennis; the third, basketball, and then the fourth was reserved for martial arts. Krillin and Goku quickly found themselves crossing the emptiness of the gym to approach Yamcha and Tien, familiar faces in the cluster of people that seated themselves on the bleachers, waiting for Mr. Hercule Satan to show himself.

"Have we missed anything?" Krillin asked as his cousins scooted to make space for him and Goku. He set a cursory glance upon the motley group that occupied the bleachers beside them.

In the corner, the kids he vaguely recognized as the Gero siblings (maybe it was the same distinctive type of cold, sharp eyes (though he had to admit they looked pretty nice on Eighteen Gero)). Beside them, enough to be considered close but unsure if she was directly affiliated with them, was a pretty Chinese girl sitting with Piccolo (he wondered if she just didn't know who he was and was being nice) and Nail (there he could somewhat understand and reserve judgment), chatting animatedly as Piccolo listened with a neutral expression and Nail smiled, interested now for only observing.

And sitting, far enough away to be considered isolated (and definitely enough to be considered a jackass) was that Oji kid, with his arms folded over his chest and looking ready to fight with anyone who so much as looked at him funny.

"Nothing unusual, if that's what you mean," Tien said. "But leave it to Hercule Satan to demand that we arrive here earlier than any of the other sports teams and then get here ten minutes late." His words ended unsurprisingly on a bitter note.

"And he's like this the rest of the year too?" Krillin asked dejectedly, leaning back to recline on his back and the base of his neck on the cold, unyielding structure of the bleacher behind him.

"Oh yeah." Yamcha said, eyes going wide for emphasis before they returned to their original size. "Like, Nail told me there was this one time after his first regional championships that Hercule got so drunk because they won that he didn't—"

The story was never completed, unfortunately and as entertaining as it may have been, for it was interrupted as the front entrance door slammed open a bang and in sauntered the man behind the mystery (though Krillin would've preferred he'd stayed a mystery) with a fearless swagger and a jovial if but conceited grin on his face.

The door, cracked and chipped with aged paint, closed behind him with a click, though all who were not affiliated with the MA team had by now rolled their eyes and returned back to their previous undertakings prior to his entrance. Hercule wasted no time (which meant he milked every moment he could) to stroll in his approach to his students, both those that were returning and were potentially new.

"Afternoon," he grinned, smugly so, to them, puffing out his chest as he removed a clipboard from under his arm (where at the joint from socket to tricep, a stain could be seen to be slowly flowering on the underarm of his shirt), "How's the day going? Treating you easy?"

Before anyone could even give him an answer (not that they were planning on it anyways), he continued on, formalities out of the way. "Anyways, considering for the past two days I've been reminding you about the rules and guidelines we on the Toriyama High School Martial Arts Team abide by, it goes without saying—"

"But damn it, you just had to ruin it," Tien muttered, at once tired and sarcastic (Krillin and Goku had to stifle the snorts that dared to escape them) as their instructor continued, unaware of the muttered insults directed at him.

"—but as I was getting to, in order for you all to be evaluated correctly, I have to know what form you will be demonstrating for qualifications."

At this, he gesticulated wildly with the board, and then jabbed it dangerously close to the Oji kid's face, papers fluttering with a noise not quite dissimilar to fire crackling in the hearth.

"So you're gonna write 'em down! Name first, then Martial Arts style! Pass 'em around fast too, I don't have all day!" he bellowed, almost directly in Oji's face although he dispatched the message to the group as a whole. For a tense moment, Krillin wondered if Oji was going to maim Hercule with it but took it with a grudging glower that, if it had physical capabilities, would have mostly likely ignited Toriyama's 'beloved' MA instructor.

As the board circulated through the group, Mr. Hercule Satan imparted a coarse, "Pass it forward when you're done!" tapping his foot as he waited, impatiently so.

"What are you showing again?" Goku asked him as he scribbled down a chicken-scratch, "Son Goku; Zui Quan, Drunken Monkey Branch" and then relayed the paper to Krillin as he passed on the pencil he had appropriated from Yamcha.

"I thought I told you last week," Krillin frowned as he tried to recall the days before the introduction of high school, but complied with a frown of irritation, "Hung Fut, you know, the one that I found in April?"

Goku nodded in recognition and the dim memory as Yamcha kidded, "What a nerd," nudging Krillin in the ribs with his elbow. "God, Tien, we've got such a loser for a cousin, don't you think?"

He grinned teasingly up to Tien, who had been absentmindedly staring in the direction of the Gero siblings, and turned back to Yamcha with a dubious expression. "Says the cousin that cried for an hour straight when Chihiro and Haku had to leave each other at the end of Spirited Away."

Following an instant that left Krillin and Goku unable to even sit up because they were laughing so hard as Yamcha tried to clamor over them with a face that seemed to defy the capacity of red the human expression could sustain, "I was eight and that was one time—"

"Quiet down over there or else I'm coming up!" Hercule shouted up the bleachers, silencing their laughter and Yamcha's need to regain his mottled pride as he settled for crossing his arms over his chest and shooting a glare at Tien that he cheerfully returned. The chatter around him on the bleachers continued in its low murmur, and Krillin sighed, unsurprised, looking up to the glare of the overhead gym lights that with each blink caused superimposed afterimages to dance before his eyelids.

"Wake me up if he starts yelling, will you?" Krillin asked Goku, who was watching Tien and Yamcha try to continue their argument without dialogue, and waited until he received his confirmatory nod, and then closed his eyes, relying on the support of the bleachers once more.

If this is what it's like when we haven't even made it, Krillin thought as he listened to the sound of activity that continued around him in the gym, I wonder what it's gonna be like when we actually get on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (A/N): And that brings us to the end of this chapter! Sorry if I seem to be making Yamcha a bit of a butt monkey in the past few chapters, but I'll be toning it down a little bit; also sorry if I keep calling Hercule 'Hercule' repeatedly and if it seems a little bit redundant, but I just don't want to blatantly call him by his surname of 'Satan' (for obvious reasons). Also, apologies if this chapter seemed a little short, I'll make sure to bring the word count up in the next few chapters. Was there anything you liked? Anything you hated? Anything you think might happen in the next storyline of these chapters? If so, please let me know! I'd love to hear any feedback! Thank you very much for stopping by!


	4. September 11th-Piccolo Daimo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now, we get to see Toriyama High from Piccolo Daimo's perspective. Enjoy!

September 11th-Piccolo Daimo

Piccolo was usually awake an hour before his cousins; this Friday was no different. In the hush before dawn, he would open eyes to a budding night-morning and make his stolid, quiet way past the rooms where his family slept (in order, Dende, Nail, and then Kami; Mr. Popo preferred sleeping on the first floor).

Following the hallway, it was a short journey down the ivory-white staircase to the junction of three doorways in an already massive house. One led to the kitchen, the other to the backyard, and the third simply led out. Piccolo always took the third.

There were few things that Piccolo appreciated in life, and damn if he would ever admit them. The chip on his shoulder was simply too big to permit that. But, one of the things he humbly appreciated was the horizon that revealed itself with the exposition of each morning.

The sun was framed by the morning's creamy pink and flagrant magenta, and suffused by the tremulous blue of the fading night sky. It rendered the neighborhood he lived in with an indescribable beauty unique to him. Were he a poetic man, it might have inspired him to write. But that was Nail's avenue of expertise, and Piccolo was only there to admire it from where he stood on the Lookout (the name he and his cousins had 'cleverly' coined their uncle's house with. Considering the lofty hill that it rested on and the breathtaking view it provided, it seemed perfect for it).

On these mornings, Piccolo would admire the beauty for a few more fleeting moments, and then settle down into a stiff, straight-backed sitting position before assuming a hushed, peaceful meditation. Kami had been the one to suggest it first, to control his temper. And after that fight with Goku in eighth grade, his uncle had made sure to enforce it to prevent any further outbursts.

And although Piccolo Daimo would never admit it, doing the damn thing actually helped. He would sit down, relax, breathe, and mutter a few Buddhist chants that Mr. Popo had taught him. And that was how his good mornings would begin themselves.

But on great mornings, he would have company.

He didn't need the prominent, namesake ears of his Namekian heritage to hear the careful feet that made the path of the paved steps winding up the hill. He didn't need them to hear the pace that eventually paused upon reaching the zenith of the marble steps, standing before him and becoming an effective barrier between him and the sun. And he certainly didn't need them to know who it was.

He cracked open an eye, unabashed in his glower as he spoke in a low growl.

"Chi-Chi, you're in my way."

"Tough." The young Chinese girl replied, hands on her hips. Her silhouette was darkened in shadow from his perspective, and he could practically feel her taunting, goading expression that dared him to say anything else, feel his best friend daring him to get a word in edgewise.

But the moment dissolved from the façade of tension they purported and she sat fluidly, assuming a cross-legged sitting position opposite him, straight-backed as him. He stared for a moment too long, admiring the way that the sunlight framed her face. Her cheeks were pink from the flush of traversing the height of the hill-mountain, and he was unaware that she had been speaking until she called him to attention.

"—Piccolo. Piccolo Daimo. Hello? Anybody home?"

He refocused on the moment and returned to reality, gruffness intact for the moment. "What?"

"You're supposed to be zoning out with your eyes closed, idiot. This is for your own good, not so I can get out of breath running up these dumb steps, so focus." She returned the glare he so normally donned.

"Shut up," Piccolo replied, brow only deepening into a more intense glower. "No one's asking you to come up here."

Chi-Chi scoffed, unabashedly doubtful. "Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that." She broadened her shoulders and closed her eyes, expecting him to mimic her. "Remember the chants Mr. Popo taught us."

"I've been doing this longer than you have," he reminded her grumpily; she shrugged, eyes still closed.

"Sure you have, honey." She quipped, eyes closed as a corner of her mouth turned up. He wouldn't admit the small quirk of his mouth he felt as he followed suit. His eyes closed and shoulders spread as they prepared for the approaching school day.

 

After he and his cousins would share a quiet, uneventful breakfast with their uncle, they would bid him and Mr. Popo goodbye before making the trip down the hill to collect the last member of their trip. Chi-Chi was usually already waiting for them, backpack slung over a shoulder and ready to go. The four of them would assume hushed, groggy conversation until they reached Dende's middle school, Oda Junior High. After watching him pass through the safety of the gates, the remaining three would continue on their journey.

"If you ask me, Kami should have put him in Togashi Junior like he did with us." Nail willingly conceded as they continued on the way.

"I went to Oda; look how I turned out," Chi-Chi hotly defended the virtue of her middle school alumni, side-stepping a slope in the cracked pavement of the sidewalk while her companions merely strode over it.

"You're only proving his point," Piccolo sarcastically replied, to receive a light smack to his arm in return. "Besides, Togashi was a waste of time."

"You're only saying that because you picked fights all the time, you bandana-wearing punk." Nail advocated with Chi-Chi for the moment, teasing him with a smile. "If you'd actually read a book in middle school, you might be singing a different tune."

"Yeah," Piccolo retorted with a glare accompanied by a grin, "I might have turned out like you."

"Can you imagine? Three smart kids in Uncle's house? The universe might collapse." Nail tsked disapprovingly as Chi-Chi chuckled, shaking her head in disbelief.

"End times indeed," she contributed. When Piccolo glared at her jab she only continued to laugh.

Upon reaching the school, the three of them parted ways in two groups. Piccolo had first period Precalculus and Nail and Chi-Chi took the path that led them to Honors Orchestra (Nail played cello and Chi-Chi viola).

The period was sluggish in its tedium and Piccolo wondered if this was punishment for his worldly sins, but the class passed otherwise without event. His reprieve was granted with the shrill chime of the bell, and it took him all of his composure to not bolt out of the room the way his classroom companions did. Outside the room, he was greeted by a familiar face and a companion to the next class.

"Precal was that bad?" Chi-Chi asked, although the unamused expression on his face spoke volumes already.

"You really need to ask?" he brusquely returned, looking down at her as they both began the walk to World History.

"Eh. Gives me something to think about that isn't Orchestra. I swear to God, I don't know how Nail's put up with the director for two years." Chi-Chi complained, abrasive glare reminiscent of the previous period. Piccolo felt his mouth turn up in a smirk, though he wasn't quick enough to hide it from her.

"It's not funny, dammit. He's an asshole and my struggle is real," she groaned irritably, pushing against him with all her weight as they trudged through the sea of passerby that were all taking their individual paths to uniquely assigned classes.

"Of course it is," he replied in a tone reassuring to only himself. This only prompted a louder groan from her as she pushed harder and balled up a fist to sock his arm.

"Oh, shut up, Daimo. No one asked you." She grumbled to herself, shifting her left arm to have a better grip on the neon green folder that slipped in her hold. The sarcastic counter that he half-muttered half-spoke under his breath only permitted him another right cross in return.

World History was bearable as the subject was interesting and the company (very) enjoyable; the teacher assigned a partner quiz that the two of them shared. Piccolo would have been lying if he said that he would have been able to answer it without Chi-Chi's help.

After all, he already had to bear the brunt of her continuous, motherly comments of 'martial arts do not a gifted scholar make' and their ilk. However, unlike Precalculus, it passed quickly and too soon and they had to gather their things and make haste for third period.

"If this is how your preliminary quiz was, I don't think I want to know how your middle school career went," Chi-Chi groaned as her eyes flashed with the tell-tale warning of a scowl, aimed directly at him. He would have lied again if he said he was able to ignore it.

"I didn't care for reading or grades in middle school," he modestly replied, a rumble in his voice as they crossed the distance to the bungalows. Their conversation was barely audible over the mindless, incessant chatter of the school population.

"Yeah, I noticed," she said, rolling her eyes; it was his turn to shoot her a dirty look that she managed to skillfully ignore unlike he. "But that doesn't mean that it's happening again this year. You're gonna pass with at least a 3.5, Piccolo, you hear me?"

"Uh-huh. Of course." He nodded patronizingly, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he looked to the sky to hide his grin; her fist connected with his arm as they walked.

Chinese 3-4 was tolerable and probably would have been even moreso if Goku wasn't there. It was a surreal feeling to Piccolo, trying to sit civilly only a seat away from him, when for the past three years it had taken people to physically restrain the two of them as soon as they laid eyes on each other.

Goku, while unashamedly oblivious in several aspects, hadn't allowed this fact to escape him. Judging by the tension and stiff-necked posture that he assumed with each passing day they sat by him for Language Education, the more and more he seemed to be aware of this.

Thankfully, Chi-Chi was not an idiot and had heard enough of Piccolo's complaints from middle school years to know exactly what kind of history that the two of them had. Her need for a peaceful learning environment and the desire for her best friend to not get suspended within the first week of school had prompted her to become the unofficial mediator between the two of them, diffusing tension between them whenever she could.

But she couldn't umpire every moment, and that day the instructor chose her to pass out papers. She left, the two of them only a seat away from each other with countless memories of bruised knuckles and black eyes. The moment was prime for a little ribbing, and Piccolo knew he couldn't pass it up.

"Hey, Son." Piccolo growled, audible enough for only the two of them to be able to hear it. He kept a weather eye on Chi-Chi, who was currently relegated to the other side of the room, thumbing for an extra paper. He allowed the moment to glance back to Goku, who had twitched at the call of his name, and upon realizing who had called him, frowned suspiciously. He averted his gaze, refusing to even grace Piccolo with eye contact, zeroing his stare on the surface of his desk.

"What do you want?" Goku asked, crossing his arms in a manner akin to a child being sent to time out. His shoulders hunched and his head bowed as he awaited a response.

"Ready for tryouts tomorrow morning?" he probed, almost politely for the Namekian. He turned to look at his conversational companion, who still refused to meet his gaze. If anything, his question caused Goku's shoulders to straighten as he prepared to defend himself, but nothing more.

"Yeah, I chose my routine and everything. Why?" his words were terse, unlike how expressive he usually was when he was talking to anyone else.

"No reason. I'm surprised you actually think you have a chance." He replied, ever-so-casually, and fought the smirk that threatened to expose itself as Goku flinched again, still fighting the urge to look at his rival.

While Goku took a moment to physically restrain himself (it was impressive, to be honest; back in middle school the slightest provocation would have had Goku jumping at the gun if someone wasn't there to hold him back), he retorted back without hesitation.

"Same to you, Daimo. Too bad we just don't get to fight each other if we both make it on the MA team." Goku replied, carefully choosing his words (wonders never ceased, Son was actually thinking before he spoke!), and Piccolo chuckled lowly.

"Who says that's gonna stop me? You and I still have unfinished business, Son." He returned, and it was that moment that his rival opted to turn his head up and meet his gaze. "Or did all that brain damage I gave you make you forget?"

A tense moment passed, before Goku acquiesced and shook his head. A scoff of disbelief passed under his breath, and he returned his gaze to the sheen of his desk. He absentmindedly brushed away eraser scrubbings from the previous period.

"Yeah, you wish." He replied, and Piccolo would've rolled his eyes had the retort come from anyone else; he prepared something else to say but was interrupted by the smack of paper on the desk in between them. Goku jumped in surprise for a third time that period and Piccolo lazily glanced up to gaze up at Chi-Chi, admiring the suspicious beauty of her face.

"I'm hoping you guys had a polite conversation while I was gone, right?" she asked testily, arching an eyebrow down at Piccolo, who assumed gruff courtesy for her presence.

"What else would we be doing?" Piccolo inquired (almost innocently for him) as she walked around their desks to return to her seat and snorted doubtfully. She failed to notice the glance that he and Goku shared; they looked to the papers that she divided up between the three of them and returned to civility again.

 

Lunch with Nail and Chi-Chi passed without incident; Nail grumbled in his own subdued way about the project that his Creative Writing class had, which was to write a horror story that was due by the end of next week.

"Sure, Launch says that it's for participation, but I can't write horror for my life." He quietly complained as he unfolded the lunch bag that he had packed for himself the previous night. Chi-Chi listened for a moment before coming up with a bright retort.

"It's not so bad; besides, you've already got a ton of topics you could use." she grinned cheekily. Piccolo had drifted off to other mental avenues and had tuned their discussion out.

"Really? Like what?" Nail asked, already intrigued. He crumpled the wrapper to his sandwich and tossed it in a nearby receptacle; it spun around the rim before dropping into the trash.

"Well, for one thing, you already have the story of how you've managed to survive with him in the house for this long," Chi-Chi grinned as she pointed over her shoulder with her thumb to their lunchmate, who grunted in bemusement as he found himself being dragged into the conversation without context.

"Hey, I said 'horror story,' not 'gross-out story,'" Nail joked, and the two of them shared a laugh at Piccolo's expense, who glared suspiciously at the missed quip but chose to ignore them again.

Following lunch was Advanced English; Piccolo didn't share the class with anyone, not Chi-Chi, who would have made the class more entertaining for all the right reasons, or Goku, who would have improved it for all the wrong ones. Like Precalculus, it was about as interesting, and he had to summon his willpower not to doze off like most of the class that reposed in sleep freely.

The bell couldn't be more welcome, and he took it to saunter to Physics, a gratifying change from the droning pace of English. Although he couldn't proclaim that it was his favorite subject, at the very least it was a transition to something a little more up his alley.

If only the same sentiment could be shared for his classmates.

"Well, look what the green-skinned cat dragged in." Came the oil-slick comment of his tablemate as the Namekian sidled into class. Piccolo gave a grunt of acknowledgement to him, but that was enough encouragement for his colleague to continue. Piccolo set down his bag on the desk with a muted thud.

"How's your cousin, Daimo?" Seventeen Gero asked as he lazily reclined in his seat, adjusting the conspicuous orange ascot tied about his neck. His cloying yet caustic smile did Piccolo no favors as he pulled back the chair to his desk with an unsubtle groan on the linoleum.

"Not missing your skinny ass, that's for sure," Piccolo replied, allowing the sardonic touch to his words to be felt. He watched the Gero sibling sidelong for a reaction as he fumbled within the contents of his bag for a pencil and paper, but found no response other than a casual chuckle in response.

"Cute. How long were you practicing in front of the mirror for that one?" Seventeen nodded his head up to flip a lock of shoulder-length hair out of his vision (it reminded him of Chi-Chi, but at the same time Piccolo knew that there was a far cry between the two), and turned his gaze over to his acquaintance again. That damn smirk got on Piccolo's nerves, and it made him wonder what the hell Nail had ever seen in the Gero sibling to being with.

"Wasn't as long as the time you spent in front of yours." Piccolo replied curtly, and at that, Seventeen turned his head up to the ceiling and scoffed out a quick, humorless laugh.

"Trying to say something about me, Daimo? Careful, you might actually hurt my feelings." He crossed a glance with Piccolo before he turned to check the time on the wall behind them and then turned his gaze to the front of the board where the instructor had begun to dictate a lesson to the class.

Piccolo had the urge to say something (something mean and rude that he would usually say to Goku), but eventually what common sense Chi-Chi had ingrained in him won the internal battle. Suffice to say he didn't feel at ease around Seventeen Gero, but that went without saying.

Eventually, when no response came from Piccolo's side, Seventeen lost interest and began to jot down notes in a long, thin penmanship that was stilted yet neat, but Piccolo still didn't pay any attention. The class went on, as did he, though his mind was already waiting in another plane of existence for Sixth Period.

 

"I don't know what you saw in him," Piccolo reiterated as he strolled with Nail around the perimeter of the basketball court. "I don't trust him."

Since the majority of the tryouts were on Saturday but the paperwork filed the day before, there was no necessity to force those involved in the Athletics Department to do anything rigorous or be forced into sitting in their sequestered seats. Everyone was allowed to roam the gym, so long as they stayed in the confines of the hall.

As he awaited his cousin's response, Piccolo's gaze swept the bleachers, where he spotted the rest of the would-be Toriyama High Martial Arts Team. Son Goku and his idiot group lazed about on it, napping or laughing about stupid jokes, while the Gero twins abandoned their younger sibling so they could stalk out gossip as they paced. Oji sat alone, detached from the main ensemble; Piccolo didn't blame him.

Nail attempted his best to be civil and gloss over the misdeeds of the past with an idle shrug. "I was younger back then. So was he. I thought that I could change him."

"Change what?" Piccolo gruffly asked; he arched a brow as he appraised Nail. If his cousin were made of less sterner stuff, he might have blushed. Again, he opted for euphemism over honesty.

"You sit next to him in Physics; I think you've guessed by now." He chuckled; Piccolo allowed a snicker. "I tried my best."

"If that's what he's like now, I don't want to know what he was like before."

Nail laughed, open if but the slightest bit strained; the past still hurt even if it was the past. "Leave him be, Piccolo. Don't let him get to you; what the two of us had is over and I'm happy to leave it at that."

Nail paused and a wry smile touched his lips. "Besides, you have enough problems of your own."

"Problems? What problems?" Piccolo was caught off-guard at the blatancy of the statement. Before Nail could elaborate, their conversation was interrupted by a welcome pint-sized Chinese powerhouse that introduced herself into their fray.

"What have I missed?" Chi-Chi breathlessly inquired with a grin; she had been discussing the schedule of the tryouts with Hercule and had only just extricated herself from conversation before offering a 'hello' to Goku's group. They slowed the pace so she could catch her breath as she walked with them.

"Nothing much; just escapades of my old dating life." Nail explained with a dry grin; Chi-Chi nodded knowingly.

"I think 'charred remains' works better here." Piccolo muttered; Nail elbowed him.

"Fight me, Daimo."

"Don't have to ask twice."

"Don't make me come in there and fight you both," Chi-Chi absentmindedly added; Piccolo looked down at her and fought the urge to tell her that it would never even cross his mind to even lay a hand on her. Once again, her common sense rubbed off on him and he didn't.

The three continued to walk the gym's border discussing matters of great importance until the bell rang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed; remember, reviews help a writer grow, grow, grow! See you next time!


	5. September 12th-Martial Arts Tryouts

**September 12th-Martial Arts Tryouts**

Goku was at the door to Kame House at seven in the morning that Saturday, with a groggy Bulma in tow suppressing a yawn every other step.

"Goku, did you have to get me up so early?" She whined, trying to smooth the part in the impromptu ponytail she made; she blinked the sleep out of her eyes as she gently glared at her companion. "I bet you ten zeni that they aren't even up yet."

Goku, however, was on another level of consciousness; the slow trickle of adrenaline had been pumping through his veins since he had woken up. It felt like every moment that he didn't take the mile and a half to the tryout room at Toriyama was churning his stomach inside-out. Excitement had tunneled a hole in his stomach and burrowed straight into his heart; every step he took was like walking red-hot coals and every heartbeat a drum tolling another wasted second.

He was barely conscious of the fact that Bulma had been talking to him until a brisk smack to the back of his head jostled him from his reverie. He returned to reality and looked up to see the half-indignant, half-empathetic stare of his friend. A moment after taking in the indiscernible complicated expression on her face, Goku diplomatically opted to apologize.

"Sorry Bulma," he acquiesced, trying to avoid eye contact and prolong his life, "I've just been thinking a lot about the competition—"

"Son Goku," Bulma interrupted him; at this, her expression lost its weary fury and became warily affectionate, "thanks to the group of morons we call friends, I have been exposed to every kind of kung fu, Tae Kwon Do, Jeet Kune Do, Muay Thai, and various vaguely Asian-sounding kind of self-defense that exists."

Goku gaped at her dumbly as she continued, unsure of where the line of conversation was going. "And I've had enough time with you one-track-minded idiots to know the difference between shitty losers that are in this sport to pad their college applications, and the people that are good and devoted to this 'athletic application' because they want to and because they know they can do it."

She paused; regaining the composure she had momentarily cast to the wind, and set a steely gaze upon him. "Can you guess which of those two you are?"

"Uh," Goku said, "I'm not going to college, so—"

"Goku." Bulma cut him off with a hand she raised to silence him; that conversation would be for another time. "You are one of the best martial artists I've ever seen. And you are gonna make it on this team or so help me I will bribe, threaten, or seduce whoever it takes to get you on it."

There was a long moment of silence between the two of them, during which Bulma primly took advantage of it to adjust the cuff to her shirt, admiring everything else but the friend that found little to do but gawk in unspeaking incredulity.

And then he smiled at her, broad and strong.

"Thanks, Bulma."

"You're my oldest friend, Son. You think I'd do anything less for you?" She sniffed daintily, and then pointed a cerulean blue nail at the door to Kame House. "You gonna knock or not?"

He nodded mutely and raised a hand (that wavered just the slightest) to the oaken wood of the door.

* * *

 

"So the way it goes," Tien explained as they walked onto the grounds of school campus, "is that you'll go into the main gymnasium while everyone waits out in the lobby."

"What do we do while we wait?" Krillin asked; his gaze wandered from the exchange to the cloudy gray horizon. He felt as if his heart was beating too fast to be considered healthy; there was a concerning hiccup in its rhythm every so often and he hoped it was either his imagination of his anxiety acting up.

"Anything, really." Yamcha returned breezily as he walked on Krillin's right, hands stuffed into the pockets of his black gym pants. "Hercule doesn't care so long as you don't piss off other people waitin' with you."

"It's happened before," Chiaotzu offered cheerfully, before Krillin could voice his doubt on the devolution of such a situation.

"What about when you get inside? The main room, I mean." Goku probed; he looked up from Tien's left as he rolled up the sleeves to the sweater in preparation for the later audition. On Goku's left Bulma paced beside them, texting out a quick message to one of her non-martial arts friends.

"Hercule will be in there with both of the captains. You'll bow to them, and then state your name and the martial arts form you're going to perform. While you do it, they'll take notes and write things for you to fix or what looked good to them." Tien explained. "You'll have the option to demonstrate some power afterwards—breaking wood planks, that kind of stuff, but it doesn't hurt your score if you don't want to."

"Just warning though, it hurts like a bitch if you _do._ Besides," Yamcha contributed, as he began to tie his hair back into a bun to avoid any flyaways,"you two are definite shoo-ins. Don't sweat it. This is the easy part."

"Says the guy who's made it on the team already," Krillin muttered under his breath, Yamcha nudged his arm with his elbow and beamed.

"Says the guy who's gonna make it on the team with me today." The six of them filtered past a hallway, and continued to walk the short distance to the gymnasium that revealed itself nearby.

* * *

 

"Hold on, I've got the key to get in." Nail said, and produced a key from his baggy grey sweatpants. He fumbled to balance a bulky navy blue pack underneath his arm while he struggled to unlock the door.

"Let me get that," Chi-Chi suggested, and shouldered the pack into her arms before she could hear so much as a mumble of protest from her (hopefully) future martial arts captain. "What's in here, anyways?"

"Weights and wooden planks," Nail replied, and there was a subdued click before the door opened to a darkened hallway, shadows obscuring the features within to mere shapes and figures. He turned back with a cheerful smile. "There we go! Daimo, put a smile on that face; c'mon, you guys're trying out! Aren't you excited?"

"I'll be excited when you lose the shirt." came the surly reply from besides Chi-Chi. Nail admired the deep-set glower that his cousin assumed below the white bandana he was so fond of wearing, but he was not dissuaded. His gaze drifted down to the neon pink t-shirt he had made specifically for the new year, and was proudly wearing. It was short-sleeved and hemmed with neon green, and topped off by a spastic speech bubble in the center of his chest that exclaimed, _"Look out, Kishimoto High! Toriyama's where it's at!"_ At the very least, it was attention-getting.

Nail glanced up to meet Piccolo's disbelieving gaze that said, 'I-can't-believe-I-call-you-cousin-and-if-I-get-on-this-goddamn-team-I'll-have-to-call-you-captain,' and couldn't help but laugh. "Not on your life, Daimo."

"I like it." Chi-Chi defended the virtue of the shirt, turning to look at Piccolo as she shifted the weight of the pack in her arms.

"You like everything, Chi-Chi." Piccolo retorted grumpily, folding one arm over the other.

"Yeah, and look where it got me; I got stuck with you as a friend." She offered a sterling smile at his rebutting frown, and Nail tried to smother a snicker at Piccolo's offense.

"You guys wanna waste all that energy before tryouts? Come on and get in here and try to find the light-switch for me." He ushered them inside, and as the three of them fanned out in the darkness to search for the light, he called out, "Besides, if you think _this_ is bad, y'oughta see the one I made for Sixteen."

* * *

 

"What the hell is he wearing?" Eighteen muttered to her twin.

"I think it suits him." was the sarcastic reply.

"Makes him look…what's the word?"

"Colorblind?" was her deadpan reply.

"Eh, close enough." He smirked. "Who the hell convinced him to put it on?"

"Beats me," Eighteen offered in response, crossing her arms as she leaned her weight on one leg.

They looked at their brother Sixteen, side-by-side with Nail Daimo, as Hercule Satan paced the line of tryouts, both rookies and veterans alike, giving them a rather hearty, enthusiastic speech. But few, if any in line, were paying attention to his speech, as the shirts their captains wore were horrendously mesmerizing in all of their cringe-worthy glory.

While Nail's shirt was bad enough, Sixteen's was equally horrible, in a blatant neon yellow hemmed with neon blue. The speech bubble on his shirt, however, called out a different school, with a rather jovial, _"Say what, Tezuka High? Come and get some of Toriyama if you're brave enough!"_

"He'd get beat up at school if he wasn't the martial arts captain." Eighteen dryly commented, her voice barely rose above a whisper as Hercule neared their end of the line.

"He'd get beat up at school if he wasn't two feet _taller_ than everyone." Seventeen amended her statement, but swiftly became silent as Hercule passed them by and circled around, continuing to dictate a well-rehearsed speech.

"—and you've got another think coming if you just assume you can waltz right in here and just showboat your way through competitions; that is, assuming you even make it through our tryouts! I'm not whistling dixie when I say that we've got one of the best teams in the county and—"

By the time that he had circled back around and descended down the aisle, they had already resumed their conversation.

"So, you think that there's anyone worthwhile this year?" Eighteen asked, inclining her head to look at Seventeen without drawing too much attention to them.

"Pint-sized widow's peak looked like he had some promise, if he had someone to knock the attitude out of him." Seventeen brazenly remarked, jerking his head to the side at what she could only refer to as a pissed man-child that stood at the other end of the row.

"You're one to talk." She countered, and he scoffed at the statement.

_"Please._ I'm much cuter than him."

"You wish. Well, at least least Sixteen's happy; his boyfriend came back for another year." Eighteen wryly quipped.

"Yeah, and look; he brought more of his friends from the Orient." Seventeen returned.

"Classy." She frowned at his word choice, though she didn't really seem to care either way.

"I don't recall giving a shit." He smirked.

"Your ex is here." She added, nodding her head up to Sixteen's co-captain; Seventeen rolled his eyes to the heavens.

"What, are you jealous you don't have one on the team?"

"'Jealous' is a strong word."

"Same difference to me." He brushed it off with ease, and they returned their attention back to Hercule's farce of a speech.

* * *

 

"State your name." Sixteen stated from behind the table where he, Nail, and Hercule sat; Hercule had provided clipboards with paper for them to make any notes and critiques for the nine applicants over the course of the next few hours.

"Vegeta Oji." Came the terse announcement from the short, stocky figure before them; the glare he managed was rather impressive in his ferocity. Hopefully, if he made it on the team, it'd be beneficial in intimidating his opponents during competition. Nail noted the incredible gravity-defying capability of his hair but resisted the urge to make comment of it on his clipboard.

"Northern Shaolin." Vegeta stated baldly, in reference to his form, and offered no more, either through expression or posture. Hercule's head ducked as he scribbled down the information on the form, and then bobbed back up as he palmed the stopwatch, winding the gears back for the appropriate time.Nail and Sixteen shared a glance of mutual, if but subdued, excitement from where they sat on their respective sides of the table.

_New year, new team._

"You have three and a half minutes to exhibit your capability." Nail instructed, and the only confirmation he received that Vegeta had heard it was as the teenager settled into a firm, unyielding stance and prepared himself for demonstration. His gaze hardened; reminiscent of the seasoned veteran. It was obvious that this was not his first rodeo, and he was determined to let everyone else know.

"You may begin..." Hercule paused for dramatic effect, at which the muscles in Vegeta's limbs coiled, as if he was prepared to strike. Three pencils paused over the paper, ready to jot down anything at a moment's notice, breath held at rapt attention.

_"Now!"_

* * *

 

"The worst part is the waiting, to be honest." Yamcha confessed; he, Krillin and Goku sat in a triadic circle on smooth tile beside the drinking fountain. Tien had been summoned moments before, the third so far in what was looking to be a long morning.

Vegeta had already emerged from the main room with a strut in his step and loitered in the corner of the gym foyer, as if it was beneath him to even approach his potential teammates. The second to go, Eighteen, had followed only to exit minutes later at a leisurely pace, as if she was irritated that she had wasted her time on tryouts in the first place. She was currently sharing snide remarks with her twin in another corner while located the far end of the hall, Piccolo and Chi-Chi were talking, trying to distract themselves from their own impending tryouts.

"D'you think he's doing alright?" Krillin asked, looking over to the ominous imperiousness of the closed doors, but quickly diverted his gaze to distract himself from thinking about it. It would be his own turn soon enough.

"Please." Yamcha rolled his eyes. "Tien's kicking ass, just like he kicked the old man's ass this morning."

"I don't think it'll be that bad." Goku tried to reassure Krillin as he did himself, only to be met with a scoff from his two conversational companions.

"Goku, you of all people have nothing to worry about." Krillin teasingly chastised him, a sly grin growing on his face. "What, is one of your forms going to be off by half a millimeter?"

"Or worse, he'll go over the time limit and only be able to show the first twenty-three of forty forms he wanted to show off." Yamcha simpered, chuckling along with his cousin.

"Hey, don't joke about that kind of stuff!" Goku defended himself, and flushed darkly as he admitted to the tiled ground, "And besides, I only learned twenty-five."

"Well, the way you were staying up every night," Krillin arched a brow as he palmed the wall to stand up, "I could've sworn it was—"

The rest of his sentence was never articulated, however, as he turned and wheeled into the person he least expected to be approaching the drinking fountain at the same moment that he was. Due to the sheer force that he twisted into the guy, Krillin was surprised he hadn't been knocked flat on his ass, but he still had to grip onto the wall as a foothold to regain his balance. Goku and Yamcha had leapt up as one to make sure he didn't fall over, but it wasn't necessary.

"Hey!" Krillin exclaimed, trying to not act like he hadn't been thrown for a loop (but damn, it felt like he had run into a human brick wall), "What the fu—"

"Watch where you're going next time, midget." Vegeta cut him off, and fixed a glacial gaze on him that dared him to continue. Before the moment passed and Krillin could say anything, he turned away and bent over to take a drink.

"Like you're one to talk." Krillin hotly retorted, seized by bravery and inspiration he hadn't expected. He kind of wished it could have stayed suppressed a little longer when Vegeta stopped short.

Krillin met eyes with a face he wished was fixing that kind of stare anywhere else but on him, and watched as Vegeta stood and straightened up, looking down from the (marginal) height advantage at his opponent. Unfortunately, it still worked.

"What was that?"

"I—ah—I—" Krillin realized that the hall had gone deathly quiet; from his peripheral vision he belatedly observed that the two Gero siblings watched the situation in similar fashion to bored spectators at a gladiatorial event. Eighteen looked mildly interested and Seventeen like he was itching for blood. Chi-Chi looked as if she was ready to step in and intervene, and Piccolo ready to restrain her.

"He called you short. Get over it." A voice interrupted the locked glare that the two of them shared, and shifted Vegeta's scowl over from Krillin to the person behind him; he turned to see Goku flanking his side protectively. The glower on Son's face vaguely reminded him of the times when he would face down against Piccolo in middle school; if need be, Goku was ready to throw down and defend Krillin.

"Oh?" the tone in Vegeta's voice turned darkly inquisitive, and Krillin wasn't sure if that made it any better. He took a careful step backwards in retreat towards Yamcha; it didn't feel like it was his battle to fight for anymore. "And what's a punk freshman like you gonna do about it?"

Although Goku was a few more inches taller than Vegeta, it did nothing to disregard the pure muscle that Vegeta had on his side. But it did nothing to prevent either of them from withdrawing, especially with the eyes of everyone on them.

"Well," Goku said, conscientiously wording how he would brook this course of action, "more than talking and listening to someone who hasn't proved to me that they can fight."

"Is that a challenge?" Vegeta demanded, and it was clear from the slipping lack of composure on his face that he was dying for it to be. He was ready for Goku to say anything to set him off.

Goku's face was sincere."I'm sorry; but I only fight people that are actually any good."

That did it. Control went out the window, and Vegeta went for what Krillin later assumed was Goku's throat, while Goku tried his best to block the brute force that lunged at him. There was a flurry of motion as Yamcha and Krillin went to separate the two, but the debacle was interrupted from its quick downward spiral as the gym door flew open with a bang.

"Son Goku, you're—what the hell is going on here?" Hercule Satan demanded as he appraised the situation in a few short moments; Yamcha was trying to push Vegeta away from mauling Goku, who was being restrained around the waist by Krillin and was desperately trying to pull his friend out of the heat of the moment. The four of them had frozen in mid-struggle and all goggled awkwardly at their coach like children caught snatching cookies before dinnertime.

"There aren't gonna be any fights on my team without my permission, and if you knuckleheads don't get that through your thick skulls, then you can pack your stuff and get the hell outta here!" Hercule bellowed, regaining what little composure he had over the situation; his face reddened with every syllable he enunciated and he looked dangerously close to exploding from pure fury.

A large, hairy finger was jabbed in their general direction. "Now, I asked for Son Goku, and either you do your demonstration, or you take your fight somewhere else and get disqualified immediately!" That was enough to bring Goku back to reality, and he looked guiltily away from Hercule's face to Vegeta's livid glare before regaining what little maturity he had.

"This isn't over, Goku." Vegeta threatened as best he could without incurring further wrath of their coach.

"Likewise, Vegeta." Goku lowly replied, and then straightened up from the defensive posture that he had assumed, to share one last look with Vegeta before he turned away to his tryouts. The remainder of the room watched him go in utter silence until the doors closed behind him, upon which the majority of the next minute was summarized by awkward coughing, shifting, and nervous glances. The conversation started up again at a quieter, humbler cadence.

After a pause on his part, Vegeta fixed an indescribably furious scowl on them before he made a practical snarl of disgust and stormed towards the hall's exit. Shoving the door open with a slam, it echoed in reverberation as it banged shut behind him; though, it did little to discourage the conversation by the remainder of the room's occupants.

"Jesus, you think that'll gonna be a problem later in the year?" Krillin asked, as he leaned against the wall. He looked after the direction Vegeta had so irately departed in. Before Yamcha could reply, he was interrupted by a coolly surprised inquiry.

"What the heck happened out here?" Tien emerged from the gym doors as he noted the significantly different atmosphere; he casually ambled the distance back over to meet his cousins.

"Ah, we'll tell you later. Hopefully the troll doll won't come back before then." Yamcha replied, equally casual after he had smoothed out his ruffled feathers from the impromptu brawl. "How do you think you did?"

"Aced it. Piece of cake." Tien offered a smile and bumped fists with Yamcha, who offered it to him in congratulations. "You feel up for yours?"

"You know it." Yamcha proudly declared, but was prevented from further conversation by an almost inaudible ding from his pocket. He fished out his phone and looked at the message notification on the screen: it was from Bulma (she and Chiaotzu had decided to stay outside and wait for them all to come out). After a quick swipe of his finger, he read the hastily texted message.

_What's up? That Oji kid just stomped out of here like if someone told a twelve-year-old that their favorite boy band just broke up. Are tryouts over already?_ Yamcha thought for a moment after reading the message, sighed, and then pulled up the keyboard to tap out a message in reply.

_Far from it._


End file.
